The Witch of Painted Sorrows

by Rose, M. J.

  The grimoire I’d found was handwritten in the margins of a printed book by an entirely different author.

  Some of the grimoires Dujols owned, Julien explained, contained remedies for various ailments, charms for manipulating nature and man, rituals for making pacts with the devil, incantations for summoning good or evil—or, like the spell I’d been able to read in the book in the tower, for summoning a ghost.

  Dressing up that evening had actually been a pleasant diversion. Luxuriating in a bath of steaming perfumed water, I’d soaped my arms, my legs, my torso, my breasts . . . running my hands over my body, touching all the places Julien had touched and made toll like the bells.

  Amazing, how his fingers had the power to inflame me so profoundly. When I touched myself, it took more work and concentration to induce the same feelings. But they did eventually rise to the surface. In this new life I was leading, painting and passion seemed to be going hand in hand. And what a feeling of power they gave me. I was finally becoming the woman who my father had always seemed to believe was inside. I even imagined that he had, in some subtle way, been grooming me for this very life by including me on all the excursions we took together, all the books that he gave me to read.

  “My job is to protect you, and I will do that till my dying day. But I am not sure that protecting you will allow you to reach your fullest potential,” he’d once told me.

  And he was right. I knew I was finally reaching that potential. Knew, too, that he would be proud when I joined the ranks of women painters like Mary Cassatt and Berthe Morisot and my canvases sold in galleries alongside theirs.

  But I wouldn’t be painting boring mothers whose breasts were full of milk or sniveling children in their pink and pretty clothes. I would be illuminating mysterious and difficult tales from history. Of murder and mayhem, of jealousy and revenge and pain. Spinning stories from pigment so I could warn man of the darkness that hides in every shadow, crack, and corner and that must be respected.

  Where were these thoughts coming from? Even there in the bath as they occurred to me, they excited me and my fingers itched to leave, to go back to the bell tower and paint, paint, paint.

  “We’ve arrived,” my grandmother said as the carriage pulled up in front of a tall, skinny house sandwiched in between a temple on one side and a Judaic store on the other. Its window was filled with books, cloths, and religious objects, the setting sun’s reflection turning the silver candlesticks, menorahs, and goblets to burning embers.

  “I thought Jacob’s home was next to his synagogue on rue Buffault? Where are we?”

  “The funeral was held at that shul there because this one could never fit all the mourners. But here on the rue des Rosiers is where the rabbis in your family have lived and served for over two hundred years.”

  “Rabbis and courtesans.” I laughed. “What an auspicious heritage. Throw in some murderers, and we’d have a perfect novel.”

  “Show some respect,” my grandmother admonished. “And don’t arch your eyebrows when I say something.”

  “You usually have a better sense of humor,” I said.

  She ignored me and got out of the carriage.

  Inside the house Cousin Jacob’s wife, Sophia, greeted us warmly, and she and my grandmother chatted as she ushered us into the parlor.

  “I’ll tell Jacob that you are here. He’s in his office, studying. Always studying,” she said, and left to get him.

  The modest parlor was tidy but overflowing with books: piled on the floor, sitting on chairs, stacked on occasional tables. From where I sat, I could glimpse into the dining room, which was similarly crowded. Clearly my cousin’s studies had taken over not just his time but also their living quarters. His wife’s attempts with vases of flowers and velvet cushions only went so far in keeping the house looking like a home.

  “Eva, Sandrine, welcome,” Cousin Jacob said as he entered the room with open arms. First he went to my grandmother and kissed both her cheeks, and then he embraced me.

  “Sit, sit.” He gestured to where we’d been seated. “I’m so pleased to have you both here.”

  I sat back down on a different spot and felt something shift beneath me. The horsehair couch was lumpy. The velvet was slightly worn, too. With Jacob came the unpleasant odor of cheap tobacco. My sense of smell was more attenuated lately, and it wasn’t always enjoyable to experience the nuances in the air. I suspected it had been brought about because of the oil paints. Or perhaps the turpentine was making me more sensitive.

  Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I felt trapped. My cousin’s face, which before I had thought kindly, now looked sinister. His eyes were too small. His grin too miserly.

  Under Moreau’s influence, I had become deft at studying people’s faces and seeing what was unique and intriguing in each one.

  “Look deeply at everyone and everything if you want to find the magic and mystique of life, the life you want to commit to canvas,” Moreau had said to me that very week.

  Looking at Jacob Richter, I saw a threat.

  “Would you like some wine, Eva?” he asked.

  My grandmother said she would. He asked me, and I said yes also.

  At the sideboard, he filled up three glasses from a decanter.

  After handing us our wine, he toasted. “L’chaim,” he said, and held up his glass. The gas lamp’s glow caught in the crystal cuts, sparkling with what seemed to be abandon. As if the goblet delighted in being so wicked here in the house of a man of God. The thought made me smile.

  “What is it, Sandrine?” my grandmother asked. “Something amusing?”

  I shook my head and sipped my wine. It was a fine Bordeaux, and I took several sips in a row. A few minutes passed in idle chitchat about various members of the family, and then we were joined by another man, whom Jacob introduced as Emanuel Zeller, his assistant rabbi.

  Zeller took my grandmother’s hand, bent over it, and then did the same to me. His lips were warm, and when he looked up at me, I noticed how light green his eyes were. I had three thoughts ­simultaneously—that he was quite attractive, that I should like to see him naked, and that I should leave the Richter household immediately. Just stand up and walk out and away from this street and this section of Paris and never come back.

  I forced myself to make conversation to chase away my overwhelming desire to run.

  “Are you from Paris?” I asked Rabbi Zeller.

  “Not originally, no, from Lyon,” he said. “But I’ve been here working with Rabbi Richter for ten years now.”

  “And you came to Paris with your wife?” I leaned toward him. “Or do you not yet have a wife?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw my grandmother frown. Why? I was simply making small talk and being friendly.

  “I do have a wife, but I met her here. We’ve only recently been married.” The rabbi smiled.

  “How do you find Paris as a newlywed? Isn’t it a bit too tempting?”

  Cousin Jacob interrupted. “Excuse me.” He cleared his throat. “I think now would be an appropriate moment to show you both something.” He nodded to my grandmother and myself. “Don’t you think, Rabbi Zeller?”

  “I do,” the younger man said.

  Jacob stood and gestured to the parlor door. “This way.”

  We followed him out of the room and down a hallway filled with bookshelves. The musty smell nauseated me. At the end we went through a door and down a flight of whitewashed stone steps. At the bottom, cold air accosted us as we entered what appeared to be a storage cellar crowded with stacked crates and trunks. On the other side of the room was yet one more door. This one oddly ornate for being underground in a storeroom.

  “Here we are,” Cousin Jacob said as he opened it.

  I stepped into a beautiful, pale aqua and turquoise tiled chamber lit by what seemed to be hundreds of candelabras. The ceiling and floor were cov
ered by mosaics in a rainbow of underwater hues. In the center, a square pool of water glinted in the low lights. The air was warmer, damp, and perfumed with incense.

  A mosaic mural decorated the walls. Depicting an oasis in the desert, it featured swaying palm and date trees.

  Framing the top edge were Hebraic letters.

  Not having been taught the language, I didn’t attempt to read them. But impossibly, I knew what they said.

  Blessed are You, God, Majestic Spirit of the Universe,

  Who makes us holy by embracing us in living waters.

  “Where exactly are we?” I asked.

  “In the basement of our temple,” Cousin Jacob explained as he lit more of the candelabras. “This is the sacred mikvah, a holy and ancient part of our faith where we purify and cleanse ourselves. When a person immerses herself fully in this sacred water, she is on the path to rectifying blemishes to the soul.”

  I walked around the pool. I noticed a small hole about the size of a lemon on one wall, and on the opposite was what looked like a removable cover. The candlelight reflected off the surface, sparkling like diamonds. It all seemed familiar except I didn’t have any memory of seeing anything like this before.

  Had my father shown me a similar room in an ancient temple we’d visited on our travels? In Venice when we’d gone to see the Jewish Quarter?

  “Sandrine,” Cousin Jacob said, interrupting my reverie, “we—your grandmother, Rabbi Zeller and I—want to help you.”

  Something was amiss. I should have fled before when it was possible. There was danger down here for me.

  I backed up, away from the pool. I turned, looking for the door. But all the walls were tiled. I couldn’t make out the exit. It had to be there. We’d come in through a door. But now it was hidden.

  “Your grandmother believes, as do I,” Cousin Jacob continued, “that you could benefit greatly from a purification.”

  I wrapped my arms around my chest and shook my head. I felt as if they were coming for me, as if I were about to be attacked. “No,” I said. “I’m not religious. It won’t work on me.”

  “God knows you are a Jew and a member of the tribe of Israel.”

  “But what do I need to be purified of? I don’t understand.” I looked from Cousin Jacob to my grandmother, who was standing beside him. She was hard as nails, a businesswoman, in charge, and yet for the last two days, when she had regarded me, it was with fear and trepidation, as if I were a rabid dog that had trapped her in a small room. I saw that fear there now, even more strongly.

  “When your father talked to you about the Kabala, did he tell you about spirits that enter into a susceptible person’s soul, their very being, and take over?” Cousin Jacob asked.

  “Dybbukim. Yes. What of them? They’re just ancient folklore . . . metaphors for immorality.”

  “We take the holy and mystical books more seriously than that, Sandrine. We believe in these malicious sprits. They are the dislocated souls of the dead, and they can prey on a susceptible person, eventually possessing them and causing them to act on the dead person’s behalf. When we met at the funeral, I sensed that such a creature may be preying on you.”

  “You think that I . . .” I was so stunned I didn’t even know the words to use. I turned to my grandmother. “And you believe this nonsense?”

  I needn’t have asked; I could see it so clearly in her eyes.

  “Yes, I believe you might be possessed by a demon—” she said.

  I burst out laughing. “This is preposterous.”

  Without my noticing, while I’d been questioning my grandmother, the two men had closed in on me. The young handsome rabbi and my cousin had moved so close I could smell their stale body odor and garlicky breath.

  “You planned this?” I shouted at my grandmother. “There never was an invitation to dinner. That was a ruse to get me here so you could”—I waved my arms—“enact some ridiculous ritual and cleanse me? Because I’m painting? Because I’m becoming an artist?”

  “You aren’t yourself, Sandrine,” my grandmother said.

  “You haven’t seen me in years. How do you know who I am?”

  “You’re brazen and brash and rude and willful.”

  “That’s who I am now. My brute of a husband cheated my father out of his pride and his fortune. My father killed himself. I’ve changed, of course, but . . .”

  “No. One woman arrived in Paris. She was sad and mournful but very much my Sandrine, my granddaughter. But in these weeks you’ve changed in ways that cannot be explained in any other way than possession. You are Sandrine with another inside of you. It’s happened before in our family. There are legends. For generations, certain daughters . . . the susceptible ones who are yearning for love . . . who are capable of love, have been thus afflicted. There’s the painting, too. It’s a sure sign. That’s what she lived for. To love and to paint. That’s what she’s been waiting for, to find the right host to allow her to do just that, to—”

  “This is utter nonsense,” I interrupted. “I am myself and no one else, and you are delusional.” I smiled at her sadly. “This is so far-fetched. I’m sorry I shocked you with my new outfit, but that’s all it is. Let’s go home, Grand-mère.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and I saw her soften. But only for a moment. “No, Sandrine. I know the signs. The painting—”

  “I’ve always loved art.”

  “La Lune was a painter. A great courtesan. An artist. But she was also a—”

  I cut her off again. Whatever she was going to say, I didn’t want to hear it. Not here. Not uttered as a curse. “This is absurd.”

  Cousin Jacob sounded impatient. “If it is absurd, then you cannot object to granting your grandmother her wish.”

  “If it’s absurd, then I don’t have to grant her anything.”

  But neither Cousin Jacob nor Rabbi Zeller heeded me as they closed their eyes and began their ritual.

  “Baruch ata adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam asher kid-shanu bi-tevilah b’mayyim hayyim . . .” both men intoned.

  I ran from them and my grandmother and over to where, from slight deviations in the mosaics, I was sure the door was. And yes, there was a small recess, and in it was a silver knob.

  I turned it, but it was locked.

  Panic began to course through me. What were they going to do to me? Would I no longer be able to paint? Would Julien still want to lay with me? That was all that mattered to me, painting and Julien, my whole world.

  I had to escape, but how? I turned around. The room felt smaller, and the two rabbis seemed to have grown in stature during my effort to leave. They both appeared taller, broader, more menacing.

  Cousin Jacob took a bottle out of the pocket in his jacket. It was smaller than a wine bottle, made of ruby glass, with an elaborate silver overlay on it that glowed in the candlelight. A cork hung from its long neck on a silken cord and rested on its round belly.

  The rabbis were still chanting, ceaselessly. My grandmother was standing against the wall, her hand up to her mouth, terror shining in her eyes.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of,” Cousin Jacob said as he and Zeller approached. “We are not going to hurt you, but here, in this sacred space, the demon is susceptible. So we’re going to coax her out of you and trap her.” He held up the bottle. “We are going to free you from her.”

  “There is no demon!” I looked from them back to my grandmother. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “To save you.” Her voice was hoarse but strong.

  “There is nothing to be afraid of, Sandrine,” Cousin Jacob said. “This will all be easier if you go behind that curtain and take off your dress and put on the robe you will find. We want you to be able to go home in dry clothes.”

  “I will do nothing to aid you in this mockery.”
/>   “Sandrine, please,” my grandmother pleaded.

  “No. This is absurd. A theatrical stunt. How much are you paying these men?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Sandrine,” Cousin Jacob said, “we are men of God trying to restore goodness to your soul.”

  “Yes, I have changed since I’ve come to Paris,” I began begging my grandmother, but included Cousin Jacob in my glance. “But it’s been a wonderful change. I’ve found myself. I am stronger than I have ever been. I am painting, and I’m good at it. I have goals and desires. That’s a positive change. Not something to be afraid of.”

  And, I thought to myself, after so long of thinking I was frozen, I’ve found Julien and discovered passion . . . scarlet-black feelings pulsing inside of me.

  “I won’t give up who I am.” I crossed my arms on my chest. If they wanted me to go into that pool, they would have to undress me and take me themselves. And as if by some prearrangement they each stepped closer and took one of my arms in a tight grip.

  I tried to fight, but there was nothing I could do. They jerked and yanked me toward the pool. I tried to kick, to hurt them so they would let me go, but if I was causing any pain, they ignored it.

  “Put me down.”

  “Sandrine, don’t fight them. Do what they suggest,” my grandmother cried.

  But I kept fighting. For my paintings. For my lover. For myself. Leaning in, I bit Cousin Jacob on the ear. He flinched when my teeth sunk into his flesh. As he moaned, I kicked Rabbi Zeller in the groin. He shouted out as he doubled over. That was my moment. I wrested free only for a second before both of them recovered fast enough to grab me before I got away. Despite all my efforts and all my energy, I was no match for two strong men who, with their fingers squeezing my arms, dragged me into the pool. Within seconds, I found myself standing in icy water up to my thighs. My shoes, my dress, my petticoats soaking, I began to shiver.

  Wasting no time, the two rabbis began to pray, a mesmerizing chanting that, despite my efforts to withstand its pull, lulled me with its rhythms.